JUMP DOGGY
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"You have to press the button… on the wall”
The woman on reception, just visible through the glass window on the door, was pointing her finger impatiently, as she no doubt had to do every single time a new patient arrived. Stacy jerked around, almost knocking over the her sized plant in the corridor. The button was large, and green, and indeed on the wall. When she pressed it, a buzz emanated somewhere in the reception room beyond, and after what felt like another spiteful, unnecessary 20 seconds, the receptionist unlocked the door.
As Stacy entered, she gripped tightly onto the strap of her faux-leather handbag. This day had been a very long time coming, and she wasn’t about to lose her cool now. The room was bright and teal and headachey. The radio was on, and playing a light, Radio 4 talk show where the guests were discussing a new initiative to make HRT readily available over the counter, for women starting the menopause.
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Stacy approached the reception desk. The woman sitting behind it looked near to retirement and was cooling herself with a fold out paper fan. Next to her sat a man, early 20s, with bleached blonde hair and a stud in his left nostril. Stacy stood, expecting one of the two receptionists to, at the very least notice her, but neither did. Tapping her newly manicured nails nervously on the reception desk, Stacy sheepishly revealed her existence.
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“Stacy Harris. I have an appointment for ten fif…”
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“Fill out the form there and then bring it back”.
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The older receptionist pointed again, this time down at the paper her baby faced, peroxide headed colleague had just slid across the counter. Stacy picked it up, took one of the cheap, split-plastic biros on the desk and made her way over to the seating area.
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There was a stack of magazines on the table, none of which could have been newer than 2 years old. One was titled Women’s Health Weekly and had a lady on the front cover with very white, gapped teeth - laughing as she jumped through a meadow. A few chairs away from Stacy, sat a short, bearded man whose age was difficult to place. Stacy made eye contact with him for a second but broke it off before he got any wrong ideas. She wasn’t here to make friends; she was here to get something. In and out.
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A door opened across the way, and out of it came, almost skipping, an older trans woman. A trans elder. Stacy hadn’t met many of these fabled creatures before - they were practically urban legends to her. Hypotheticals. But
here was one now, right before her eyes. Wrinkles and all. She’d always imagined that if she ever got to be one herself, she’d be dignified - graceful. A hot-milf type. But that wasn’t what she was looking at in that moment. This trans elder was making a fool of herself - talking loudly on the phone to one of her friends about how happy she was to finally be ‘getting a vagina’.
“…he said 6 months probably. I know, but it’s nothing compared to how long I’ve been waiting already. I have to lose weight for the operation though. We’ll have to go bikini shopping…”
Stacy squeezed the points of her fingernails into the meat of one thigh, only letting up when she began to feel her tights snagging. She wondered when this woman’s first appointment at the clinic had been, and if they would make her wait that long for surgery? Was this normal procedure? No, Stacy had decided long ago that she wasn’t going to let anything like that happen to her. She wasn’t going to wait around for years and years at the whim of some doctor for no reason at all. That was why she was doing this. She reminded herself to keep her expression smiley - or at least neutral. To follow the plan and stay focused.
The form only took a few minutes to complete. Just the basics, nothing she hadn’t already told them multiple times over the phone. She stood up, adjusted her skirt, and carried the form back over to the reception desk.
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The older receptionist, who was now unwrapping a tinfoil covered, homemade sandwich, snatched it back. Looking over her glasses, she began to type, slowly, onto her PC keyboard.
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“I’ve got nothing here” she said, looking Stacy in the eyes for the first time.
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“I’ve definitely got at appointment. I have the letter…”
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Stacy felt her neck hotten. This was all she needed, after all this time. She wasn’t going to be able to wait another six months.
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“I’m looking at calendar and you’re not in it”.
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“Do you want to see the letter?”
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The receptionist didn’t answer but flung her open hand outwards toward Stacy for her to place the letter into. She had at least ten bracelets on. Stacy handed it over, and the receptionist, again, squinted over her glasses.
“Steven Harris - ten fifteen”.
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Stacy winced. That wasn’t her, and it never was. But right now, at this very moment, it had to be. She steadied herself.
“They said my name had been updated on the system”.
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“It hasn’t”.
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“Can you change it?”
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“No, you have to do it through your GP”
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“But I did”
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The blonde-haired boy receptionist next to her took a swig from his Diet Coke can, then sidled up his chair to join in.
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“What’s it supposed to be?”
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Stacy gripped onto the faux-leather strap of her bag again, even more tightly this time. Shaking, her hand found its way inside, rummaged around and pulled out a box of pink Tic Tacs. A placebo. She popped one in her mouth, to distract herself. To calm her down.
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“Stacy Harris is what it should say…”
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“It takes a little while to update sometimes, that’s all”.
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Stacy wondered if six months was ‘a little while’. She didn’t say it though; she didn’t want to ruin her chances. She plastered on her trademark fake smile - the same fake smile she’d used on her GP. The same fake smile she’d perfected during twenty sessions of mandatory therapy at the Psychosexual Clinic, where they checked to make sure she wasn’t clinically insane. The same fake smile she’d been doing for years now, hoping that one day, if she practised it enough, it’d start coming naturally to her. Turn into something more real.
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“Well, I’m here, anyway”.
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“Take a seat again. We’ll call you when Doctor Bartlett is ready”.
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Stacy did as she was told.
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As Stacy made her way back over to the seating area, the click of a door opening sounded out, and a man’s voice called our her name.
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“Mr. Harris?”
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Stacy turned awkwardly on her heel, buckling her ankle, and was unable to stop herself from dropping cumbersomely into the water cooler to her side. The short, bearded man sprung up from his chair, gripping Stacy by her upper arm, helping her to her feet with, what appeared to be, a real smile. She thanked him, without making eye contact, and after brushing herself off, and readjusting her skirt for the second time, made her way past the reception desk and into the clinic room the call had come from.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
The room was every colour of beige you could imagine. Stacy closed the door behind her and was surprised when a quite handsome man in his mid-thirties invited her to sit down at his desk. Doctor Bartlett’s voice didn’t exactly match his face, but then again - neither did hers. The doctor got up, and shimmied open one of the large, horizontal windows.
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“You’ll have to forgive the stuffiness in here. There, that’s better isn’t it?”
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Doctor Bartlett sat back down, smiled, and clicked a few times on his PC mouse.
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“I’ve got ‘Steven’ here… that doesn’t seem right now does it?”
Stacy took a deep inhale through her nostrils. “It should be Stacy”.
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“Yes it should! Blasted NHS systems - they can’t expect you to go around looking like that with ‘Steven’ on your records, can they?”
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Stacy exhaled through her mouth. He was nice. He got it. She almost felt a smile coming on.
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“Now Stacy, how are we doing at the moment?” Doctor Bartlett positioned his lips on his two index fingers, waiting patiently for Stacy’s response.
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“Great. Really good”.
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“Yes? Really?”
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Stacy knew this was a test. She’d been tested before, at the Psychosexual Clinic, and knew that the key was to get the perfect balance of open honesty and sugar coating. She had to acknowledge the inherent difficulty of her situation without casting any doubt whatsoever on her decision making or confidence.
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“Well, you know… there are good days and bad days. But on the whole, I’m happier than I’ve ever been”.
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“And your family, they’re all on side, yes?”
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Stacy’s family were not ‘all on side’ - but she didn’t need to tell Doctor Bartlett everything.
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“…they’re coming around. Dad doesn’t really want to talk about it, but Mum is better.”
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“Mmm, that’s quite standard I’m afraid. Friends? Partner?”.
Stacy wondered if she ought to tell him about the breakup. The person she’d been with, way before any of this, who swore they’d love her in spite of it all - who said none of this would ever change things - who, ultimately, was wrong. Did Doctor Bartlett need to know all that? Did he deserve to know? This had been Stacy’s own private pain for a year and a half now - the excessive drinking, the pills, the embarrassing public breakdowns.
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“I have friends. I’m single right now…”
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“Well, friends are important. It’s vital that you have a support network. As for a boyfriend, well, there are plenty of men out there who like women like you. I’ve met them, they’re very real, so don’t worry about any of that - it’ll come with time. Are you thinking about surgeries?”
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Stacy felt like this would be the opportune time to say what she wanted. She hoisted her bag up onto her shoulder, to stop it from slipping down anymore.
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“Yes, I would like to do that, definitely… but right now, what I’d like very much is to start on hormone replacement therapy. I’m not trying to get ahead of myself, you know? I’m not rushing. But hormones, I think, will be a big life-changer for me”.
Doctor Bartlett readjusted in his chair and brought his coffee mug up towards his mouth.
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“I see. And how so do you imagine HRT would ‘change’ your life?”
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“Well, I think - more than anything - if I had some forward momentum in my transition… something helping me, to… you know, pass… if I could see some tangible changes, I think I’d be more confident and my quality of life would improve”.
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“Confidence can’t be medicated Stacy…”
Doctor Bartlett took a sip from his mug.
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“… we develop it through a foundation of resilience. It’s important that you understand that. Womanhood, after all, can’t be found in pill form”.
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Stacy felt the back of her neck starting to burn up. This always happened when she felt patronised. Stacy knew resilience. She was still here, after all. She chanted her regular mantra in her head: Play the game, Stace.
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“Yes, of course, I definitely do understand that. It’s hard though, isn't it? Because if I passed better, I would be more confident.”
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“And if you are more confident in yourself, as you are, you will pass better, no?”
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Stacy’s neck was scolding now. Was he toying with her? This sick chicken and egg game of his. What did this man know about passing, anyway? About ‘womanhood’? What did he know about any of it, really? Sure, he met a lot of girls like Stacy, and had probably read some books, but did he ever feel what it was like? Did he ever go out in a dress and makeup and have to grin and bear it while kids on the bus made fun of him? Did he ever have to prove who he was to a stranger, and beg for a cure? No, he didn’t. But somehow, in some unjust twist of fate, he was the expert. He got to decide her future.
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“It says here on your records that you’ve only been transitioning for about a year?”
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“Well, no - that isn’t strictly true. I came out to a few friends five years ago…”
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“And how long have you been presenting as female?”
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Stacy hated this oversimplification. Presenting as… like she was a show dog, presenting her arsehole to a panel of judges. In her head, she’d always been the same. Every interaction she’d had in her life before now, in her mind she’d always been Stacy. Stacy might be new to some, but she’d been eating away at her for decades.
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“I’ve been dressing like this for a little over a year and a half.”
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“Hmm, well - we require you to have been living in your new gender role for at least two years before I can sign off on any hormonal treatment, I’m afraid”.
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“But that’s only a matter of a few months now? Surely, by the time it all gets sorted, I’ll be more than ready?”
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Doctor Bartlett took a deep breath out, as if to say he’d relayed this bad news a thousand times before.
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“I’m afraid Stacy, we’ll need to see two years from your first consultation with us”.
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The back of Stacy’s neck could have set her hair alight; had it not been tied up.
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“Two years from now?” She could feel herself starting to hyperventilate. “I can’t wait another two years.”
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“It’s not negotiable, I’m afraid. It’s as much to do with your safety as anything else…”
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Stacy pulled her bag off her shoulder. She unclasped it, and even though her hands were starting to tingle, and become slippery under the clamminess, she grabbed securely onto the handle of the gun that had been weighing her down all morning. A small part of her had hoped that it wouldn’t have come to this, but - if she was being completely honest with herself, which now she may as well be - she had been mentally preparing for it since she left the house.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
Stacy pointed the gun at Doctor Bartlett who, in response to seeing it, didn’t move a muscle. He froze dead in place, like a man just realising he’s walked into a game of musical statues. Stacy knew as soon as she did it that there was no going back, and the feeling reminded her of that afternoon she sat her parents down on the sofa and finally told them who she was. Now she was doing it all over again - coming out - telling the world who she was, and there was no going back from it. Cats out of the bag now. No putting it back.
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“Please… just write me a prescription. Please…”
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Stacy steadied her hand, the weight of the gun feeling less heavy now. More natural - no heavier than a hairdryer.
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Stacy knew she had crossed some sort of line in that moment. Some Rubicon into the unknown, of which anything - and nothing was now possible. From here on, she would let her heart take over - let it surprise her and relax completely into the mysterious cause and effect she’d spent so many years trying to fight against.
“Stacy… let’s not do anything irrational now…”
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Stacy let her mouth take over - the words free to come out as they pleased for once, like a jar of bees, finally opened after hours of shaking.
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“Irrational? In what universe is this ‘irrational’?”
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“I just mean…”
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“Shut up. I’m not being irrational. This is a perfectly rational response to, well, everything. You sit over there, in your chair, with your coffee and your lanyard, and you think that means you know something about my life, but you’ve got no idea, have you? You have no idea how difficult all of this is. You could help me, but you won’t. You know why? Because you don’t give a shit. Not really. This is just a job for you, and when you get home and tell your wife about your day, I bet you laugh together about all the ‘confused weirdos’ you have to talk to. Well, this one isn’t confused. This one knows what she wants – hormones. Please.”
Doctor Bartlett pointed his head downwards, slowly, as if to say: please lower the weapon. But Stacy didn’t falter.
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“Stacy, I do want to help you. I can see that you’re in immense pain, and that pains me.”
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“I just want to start hormones. That’s all I want.”
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“Well… I can authorise you, but I’m not the final word on it. It’ll still need to go through your…”
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“No. Forget prescriptions, it takes too long. I know you’ve got some boxes of Estradiol around here somewhere.”
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“We don’t.”
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“You do.”
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“We don’t dispense here Stacy”.
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“But you’re a gender clinic!”
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Stacy stepped forward, and as she did - she caught sight of Doctor Bartlett’s left hand, which had been typing out something on his mobile phone.
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“What was that?”
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“What was what?”
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“Who did you just text?”
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“My wife…”
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Stacy moved around the desk to get the gun as close to Doctor Bartlett as possible.
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“Stand up please”.
Stacy waved the gun a little bit, as if she were shaking a bullet down into the chamber, to prove she was serious.
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“Where are we going?”
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Doctor Bartlett did as he was told, and got up slowly from his expensive, orthopaedic office chair.
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“Reception area. Come on…”
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As Doctor Bartlett squeezed cautiously past her, Stacy leant back against the open window and took the opportunity to catch the breeze on her face. She took in the view of Central London - it’s monstrous buildings, in all their performative modernity. Did anyone realise how backwards things still were inside those buildings?
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Stacy saw the police cars and the armoured vans turning the corner and parking up outside the building. She wasn’t mad about it - she had suspected from the very moment she unclasped her bag that this eventuality would unfold. If anything, there was a comfort to the reliability of it. At lease something was efficient. She followed close behind Doctor Bartlett, as he made his way out of the clinic room and into the main reception.
No one screamed or even gasped when they saw Stacy come out with the gun. The receptionists and patients in the waiting area alike all just froze, completely unaware of how to even begin to react to such a situation. Stacy felt bad for the short, bearded man, who was still sitting there, magazine in hand. She had slowed down the practice significantly, and knew that, whatever happened next, this poor guy would probably need to wait another six months at least.
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“Don’t anybody panic, I’m not going to hurt you, okay? It’s only Doctor Bartlett I have issue with”.
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No one spoke. Doctor Bartlett stopped in the centre of the reception room and made eye contact with the woman on reception.
“What now, Stacy? Where is this going?”
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“I’m sure you’d love to know, wouldn’t you? How does it feel to not be in control of your own life for once?”
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Doctor Bartlett turned his head cautiously, just enough to see Stacy’s gun in his peripheral vision.
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“None of us are completely in control of our own lives, Stacy”.
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“Kneel down please”
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“Excuse me?”
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“Kneel down on the floor, right there - by the water cooler”.
Doctor Bartlett did as he was asked. Stacy placed the gun to the back of his head. She hadn’t planned to do it, but it felt like the right thing to do in the moment. That was the thing about ‘the moment’, she thought - you never know you’re in it until it’s there. And in this moment - this is who she was. Somebody new.
A buzz rang out in the waiting room, and there behind the glass of the door stood another young woman, about the same age as Stacy, like her - struggling to find her way in. Stacy rubbed her finger on the side of the trigger, and wondered what decision that finger was going to make. All the agency she had hoped would come from this appointment was long gone, and all she could do now was watch, from a distance, as her life changed direction once again.
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“…I just wanted hormones. Why is that so hard?”
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Doctor Bartlett didn’t answer. He didn’t have an answer to give. The woman behind the door was gone, now replaced by an armed officer, himself pressing the door buzzer over and over again. Stacy knew she only had a few moments left, before the door would be breached and it’d all be over, one way or another. She turned to look at the receptionists; their faces set in unmistakable horror now. She glanced over at the short, bearded man, who was crying. Stacy looked back down at Doctor Bartlett, who was now face down on the carpet - blood rushing out of his head and mouth like a water feature. She looked at her index finger, which had made its decision while she had her head turned. She looked back toward the receptionists. The blonde one had spilled his Diet Coke all over the counter.
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“Go on. Buzz them in…”
Stacy placed the gun down onto the carpet, next to Doctor Bartlett, and watched herself from afar, ready to see what happened next.
